


In Which Moriarty Is Subjected To The Comedic Amnesia Trope

by Kitschgeist



Series: Stationmaster Hamish Moriarty [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Humor, Temporary Amnesia, slash goggles optional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-22 01:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13155831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitschgeist/pseuds/Kitschgeist
Summary: Professor Moriarty paused in thought. "Why am I going to London? On a Monday? In the middle of the term?"Hamish's relief was replaced by a slowly-dawning helplessness. Viola pursed her lips. "There is no term, anymore," Hamish began. "Because you aren't... Erm. You know what, you stay right here with Viola, and I'll call a doctor..."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is either in the same universe as "The Artist's Portrait of an Old Man", or an even crackier offshoot of that universe. It's set before the events of that. (Don't think too hard about the dates, eh?) All you need to know is Professor Moriarty's station master younger brother is named Hamish and doesn't know about the criminal business, but Colonel James Moriarty, his older brother, does.

"So this is your new domain," remarked Professor James Moriarty, sitting in his younger brother's drawing room. "The house is generous, but the town is, well... I was the only person who got off at this stop."

"It's an underrated destination," said Hamish Moriarty. "Off the beaten track. Appreciated by a select few."

"That is one way of putting it."

"The select few, however, appreciate me very much," laughed Hamish.

"You said the previous station master died of old age?"

"Apparently, and he left big shoes to fill. But the townspeople, they welcomed me, James! They doff their hats to me when they pass me on the street! The staff thanked me for coming here. They said I was someone who listened to their concerns. My predecessor, as respected as he was, wasn't renowned for that."

"I imagine he would have had trouble hearing them out."

"The locals talk to me about all sorts of things, too. I've even mediated disputes a couple of times, and helped people out with this and that. Sometimes I think I can _feel_ the town."

"Feel the town?"

"I always hear what's going on. I know who's who: people's relationships, how it all fits together... It's a bit like a railway network. And I suppose that would make me a signalman," mused Hamish.

"That's a lot of power, don't you think?" Professor Moriarty ventured.

"It is, when you think about it," agreed Hamish. "But it would take a lot of work to use it. Or abuse it, for that matter."

"The town is lucky to have you, Hamish."

"Not you, too, James! I've been flattered every day since I got this post. It's getting embarrassing."

Suddenly, a young boy ran into the room and crashed into the bookshelf, knocking out a few volumes before he stumbled to the floor. "Richard!" Hamish admonished, springing to his feet to pull his son up.

Meanwhile, on the top shelf, a badly-mended plaster bust of Napoleon did a wobbly pirouette. As a finale, it pivoted on the very edge of its base, and dove from its former home.

Richard's older brother dashed through the doorway, but ground to a halt when he saw the scene before him. "John!" his father yelled. "What have I told both of you about running indoors? Go to your room, now! I better see you there when I'm done with this!"

The boys crept out of the drawing room, eyes turned firmly away from the outcome of their game. Hamish watched them leave, then noticed plaster dust by his feet, stark white against the dark red of the carpet.

"We already had to mend that bust once, that's why we put it up so high. It'll be tougher to piece together a second ti-"

Hamish looked in shock at his brother, slumped in the armchair with his eyes shut, dusted by fragments of the French emperor.

He gaped. "Are you alright? James? Can you hear me? Oh God... Viola, help me! Viola!"

 

 

"James? James!" cried Hamish, one hand keeping his brother's head from lolling backwards and the other holding a bottle of smelling salts underneath his nose. Mrs Viola Moriarty stood beside them, holding a box of household medical supplies at the ready. James Moriarty's eyelids flickered. He struggled to steady his gaze, squinting at Hamish's panicked expression.

"Hamish? What am I doing here?"

Hamish sighed in relief and smiled at his wife, then turned back to his brother. "You were passing through and wanted to visit. You'll catch the first train back to London tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" asked the professor. "What day is that?"

"Monday."

Professor Moriarty paused in thought. "Why am I going to London? On a Monday? In the middle of the term?"

Hamish's relief was replaced by a slowly-dawning helplessness. Viola pursed her lips. "There is no term, anymore," Hamish began. "Because you aren't... Erm. You know what, you stay right here with Viola, and I'll call a doctor..."


	2. Chapter 2

Hamish Moriarty waited for Sebastian Moran climb into the passenger seat of their dog-cart, and began driving it towards his residence.

"May I know what James wrote in his telegram to you?" said Hamish, not turning to face him. "Erm, not your James, Colonel. The colonel. James Moriarty the-" 

Hamish heard an exasperated sigh and saw the corner of a piece of paper being held over his shoulder. He gathered the reins in one hand and took the paper with the other.

It read: PROF IN DANGER WATCH PROF UNTIL I RETURN OR ELSE

"He is not in danger! The doctor said he's perfectly fine, except for... He's in good physical health, is what I mean!"

"Whatever the hell is going on, I wouldn't have been called here if he was 'perfectly fine'," deadpanned Moran.

"Erm, yes... But 'or else'? That's a bit much."

"He's as tight as a duck's arse. Eight words costs the same as ten, he must have wanted his money's worth. You should see what else he fills his messages to me with."

"Well, anyway, we're very sorry to bother you. James-... Uh, Jamie would have dealt with it, since he lives in London too, but he's on his way to Switzerland today. I wanted to let James go alone and just tell him to see a doctor again in London if it doesn't improve. But Jamie insisted somebody should keep an eye on him. It's great to see him show this much concern, you know, as someone who grew up watching their sibling rivalry, but I still doubt it's necessary."

"I will decide what's necessary when I see him."

Hamish gulped. They continued their ride in silence.

 

"He's in the drawing room now," said Viola, as she led the men into the house. She opened the door to the room, where the professor sat reading the morning paper. As the trio stepped inside, he lowered it.

"Moran, what are you doing here?"

Moran turned to Hamish. "You didn't tell him I was coming?"

"Sur...prise...?" said Hamish, turning from Moran to his brother. The professor shot him a weary look. "Alright, sorry. It was Jamie's idea to ask him to accompany you back. I thought you would find it patronising. The doctor said it could get better once you're in a more familiar place. And I thought, since you're a genius and all, you could probably manage. If you didn't, then we would get help. But Jamie went ahead and sent for him as soon as he received my telegram."

"It's...fine," sighed Professor Moriarty, resigned. "I don't even remember where I live. If anyone deserves an apology, it's Moran. Calling him out here on such short notice, what was Jamie thinking?"

"Exactly my point," shrugged Hamish.

"Was that what hit him?" asked Moran, pointing at the mound of plaster debris on the coffee table.

"Yes, it used to be up there," Viola answered, indicating the empty space on the top level of the bookshelf in the corner of the room. "The professor had his back to the shelf when it fell."

"The chances of it landing on his head... I can't help but think _he_ did it," Hamish said, grimacing.

"Oh, don't be silly," said Viola, with a fond smile. "Even if he is still around, why would he?"

"'He'?" piped the professor.

"Stationmaster Scrimshaw," said Hamish. "The man who last held my post. When that bust fell and cracked the first time, we had no idea what caused it. And sometimes I hear noises at night... But you're right, dear, it's probably just my imagination."

Moran regarded the remnants of the bust with a new scepticism.

"Excuse me, dear, don't they need you back at the station?" Viola broke in.

"Strictly speaking, no, because Colonel Moran's train was the only one scheduled to stop here today. But I don't get paid to stay home," Hamish quipped. "I'll be back tonight. You two catch up in the meantime, eh? Ask Viola if you need any help. I'll tell the maid to bring you tea on my way out."

Hamish flashed a parting smile to his wife and guests and exited the room. Viola watched him go, then, the moment the sound of his footsteps faded, closed the door.

"Finally," she said, addressing at the professor, "we can explain everything."


	3. Chapter 3

Professor Moriarty sipped his fresh cup of tea. "You are thanking me for Hamish's new job?"

"That's right, Professor," said Viola, eagerly. "Does it help you remember?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Professor," Moran implored, "you remember being chair of mathematics. Do you remember your other line of work?"

Moriarty hesitated, glancing at Viola.

"She knows," said Moran.

"Why does she know?" exclaimed Moriarty.

"You found out I was plotting to kill Scrimshaw and offered to help," Viola answered. "Hamish always said that Methuselah didn't have much time left, but we had been waiting for him to get a promotion for so long, and I couldn't wait any longer..."

"Viola's ideas were all too dramatic," said Moran. "You wanted to kill him elsewhere, so the locals wouldn't be suspicious. You sent an agent to trail him to Liverpool, where he attended his great-grandson's christening. The man pricked Scrimshaw with a poisoned needle on the train ride back. When Scrimshaw was found to be dead instead of asleep, he was long gone."

"Oh," Moriarty said. "I have agents now."

"Operations are expanding every day," said Moran, nodding.

"Viola," said Moriarty, nervously, "could Moran and I discuss some business matters in private? They don't pertain to your case. I hope you understand."

"Of course! It's so good to see you recalling things already," beamed Viola.

After she left the room, Moriarty rested his forehead against his hand and groaned. "Moran, how is it that I'm still doing this?"

"This? You mean crime?"

"Yes, crime! Has no one caught me yet? Betrayed me?"

"No, and yes, but none of them lived."

Moriarty gazed into the distance in disbelief. "The other James, has he done anything?"

"Oh, has he?" Moran laughed darkly. "He's in too deep now. He knows that if you're ever incriminated, he's to follow."

"Good," Moriarty declared. "And I take it London is my base now?"

"It is. You're making good progress. Still, as a precaution, I cleared your schedule for the next week, for you to recover."

"You did? Moran, you didn't have to do any of this for me. I have no idea what happened over these past few years, but..."

"Ah, so you don't remember that far," Moran coughed. "You hired me. Officially."

"Hired you? To do all this? What are you, my valet?" blurted Moriarty. "I can't believe-"

"The job title is 'chief of staff'," corrected Moran.

"And the responsibilities?"

"Monitoring ordinary operations so you can concentrate on more interesting projects, the occasional high-class job..."

"It seems a good arrangement," Moriarty remarked. "How much do I pay you?"

"More than enough."

"The exact figure?"

"In the realm of-"

"Be precise!"

"Five thousand a year."

"...I'm lucky to be sitting down, Moran."

"It's a drop in the bucket compared to how much you make in total. And the tailoring bills alone for those high-class jobs..."

"Moran, you aren't blackmailing me, are you?" demanded Moriarty.

"No," said Moran, straining not to take offence. "The last person to blackmail you was the chancellor." He held up a hand to stop whatever shocked comment Moriarty was about to make. "He died in a freak accident."

"I would have liked to have a word with him."

"That was your word with him."

"Well, that sounds about right. Still, why do I pay you so much?"

"You would have to ask yourself that, Professor. You might remember. It wasn't that much to begin with. The last time you gave me a raise and I asked why, you said it was to keep me from defecting to a criminal mastermind who offers four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine a year."

"Please tell me I was joking."

"Probably."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Back in London after another awkward night at his brother's house, and what was, despite Moran's efforts, a rather gloomy train ride, Professor Moriarty arrived at his own residence, accompanied by Moran. He swung open the door to his flat. The sight that greeted him would have been familiar mere days ago, but now he viewed it as if for the first time.

He stepped inside and glanced around, hoping some detail would jog his memory. Nothing did. He set down his suitcase and entered his study. Moran followed him.

Inside the room, the professor stopped in his tracks, captivated by Greuze's _La Jeune Fille a l'Agneau_ , proudly displayed on the wall across his desk.

"It's mine," he whispered to himself, with what was, unbeknownst to him, the same expression of wonder he had on his face when he first hung the painting on the wall of his old flat. "Moran, I assume I bought it?"

"You would never stoop to art theft, Professor."

"Good to hear. The best things in life deserve to be paid for." Moriarty marvelled at his acquisition a moment longer, unable to contain his smile, then moved to survey the rest of the room.

"You'll soon understand why you like these rooms," said Moran. "You moved in shortly before you stepped down from your chair. The neighbours keep to themselves, and the only thing your landlady notices is if your rent is on time. You use Cox & Co. for that. Chequebooks are in the desk drawer."

Moriarty opened the drawer. "I have six chequebooks?"

"And seventeen bank accounts," added Moran. "Three of them are Swiss."

"Are those in my name?"

"Yes, they-..." Moran scowled and cursed under his breath. "Switzerland.  _Switzerland_. That money-grubbing imbecile shaved his moustache. No, he can't possibly..."

"Moran...?"

"Nothing, Professor! You needn't worry," Moran assured. "Make yourself at home. I'll be back tomorrow morning at half-past nine. We'll view the outcome of one of your recent jobs."

Moriarty nodded. "See you then." As Moran exited his rooms, Moriarty spied an unfamiliar book on one of the lower levels of a bookshelf. As he stepped closer to examine it, his breath hitched. Gingerly, he pulled it out, barely believing the golden letters on its spine.

The title on the front cover repeated the words that he had only remembered seeing in his dreams: _The Dynamics of An Asteroid by Prof. James Moriarty_.

He knew what would keep him busy for the rest of the day.


	5. Chapter 5

"Inspector," said the sergeant, hailing Inspector Bradstreet, "I have more information about the victim."

Bradstreet looked up from the cloth-covered corpse that had been pulled out of the harbour early that morning. "We probably won't need half of it, Lestrade," he said, already used to the sergeant's habit of making relentless enquiries regardless of the nature of the case at hand. "Our time is likely better spent elsewhere. It's an accident, if I've ever seen one."

"Maybe so, but the none of the people I talked to had a kind word to say about him. Not the inn-keeper, not his crewmates. If they didn't speak of him with a frown, it was with laughter because his wife apparently found a lover while he was at sea."

Bradstreet looked up at the heavens in resignation. The bright, noontime coastal sun shone into his eyes, forcing him to look back down. _No sympathy there_ , he thought. "No shortage of people who might have wanted him dead, Sergeant?"

"Right, sir," Lestrade admitted. "But the men who saw him in the pub yesterday night said he was unsteady on his feet from drink. So it could have been, as you said, an accident."

"Let's say, so your efforts won't have gone to waste, it wasn't an accident. Now, how about his wife's lover, could he have done it?"

"...No, sir," began Lestrade. "He's a wealthy businessman, if the rumours are correct. From what I've gleaned, he's never been seen in the area, and is often out of the country himself. He's probably out of the country now."

"This affair could have gone on a long while if they timed it right. Did he know?" asked Bradstreet, gesturing at the corpse.

"He knew, and his wife wanted a divorce, but he refused."

"Why are accident victims' personal lives so bloody complicated..." murmured Bradstreet.

"I'm reminded of that young man I arrested after that pub brawl," Lestrade put in. "You know, sir, the surprisingly plummy sailor. I've been in touch with him."

"That, what's-his-name, Hope fellow?"

"No, Holmes. He calls himself a 'consulting detective'," Lestrade answered. "He mostly gets people asking him to follow their spouses around, to see if they're having affairs. But he's sharp. We could use someone like him. I talked to him about the MacDougall case last month, before it was closed. He told me the lady's shoes were the key to it. And what do you know, he was right! She couldn't have walked all that way herself in those new shoes, so it meant someone took her there after she died."

"Well, guessing that without seeing the crime scene sounds like sheer luck to me," said Bradstreet. "But if you can vouch for him, Lestrade, maybe you could test his skills when you make inspector. Ask for his opinion on a thorny case. It could be entertaining, at the least."

 

Through the window of a dark, disused room on the top floor of a terraced house, Moriarty and Moran watched the dockside scene below, each using a pair of binoculars.

"Not the most complex undertaking," Moriarty observed, "but it is elegant."

"It hardly needed your personal attention, but you wanted to oversee it because it was 'elegant'," Moran noted. _And because, I think, you are secretly a hopeless romantic_ , he dared not add.

"She's better off without him," Moriarty mumbled. "He must have been a cad."

"Her persistent suitor might very well turn out to be a cad himself, but he is our client," Moran shrugged.

"Speaking of cads," said Moriarty, putting down his binoculars, "do you know when the other James is coming back from his holiday?"

"I'm not sure. I expect he'll be delayed. I received this telegram he sent from Calais."

Moran lowered his binoculars, fished the message out of his jacket pocket, and passed it to the professor. Moriarty read it.

     HATE SNOW IN MOUSTACHE WHEN SKIING DONT ACCUSE ME YOU

He returned the telegram. "Moran, should I be concerned by this?"

"No," replied Moran.


	6. Chapter 6

"Moran, do you suppose I could afford to...step down?" said Moriarty, once he and Moran had returned to his flat after lunch, at his request.

"Even the most intricate clock does not need its maker to wind it, once it has proved functional," Moriarty continued, taking a seat in his armchair. "All that matters is that it is somehow wound. And even if it falls into the hands of idiots who cannot do something so simple, surely it already had a good run, while it lasted?"

"Professor, in all honesty, I have never heard such utter bollocks from you since you stood in at the last minute for Professor Tyndall's Christmas Lecture," Moran retorted, as he took a seat on another armchair.

"My God, I remember even less than I first thought, yet I still remember that..."

"Do you want to see a doctor again?" Moran ventured.

"No, no. It's just... Theoretically, I could step down, couldn't I? Not necessarily permanently. Perhaps I could take a sabbatical, and see how it goes from there," Moriarty began. "Most of our people wouldn't notice if I left. They would whisper that _He's_  still around, because He's always watching. The ones who think they're clever would suspect I died by your hand. I mean to say they would be fundamentally wrong, Moran. But the top of the class, they would know not to look for me if I did not want to be found. And they would repeat what the rest say - that He's always watching."

"Is something troubling you?" asked Moran, solemnly. "The James Moriarty I know would sooner die than cede another throne without a fight."

"Am I still the James Moriarty you know?" sniffed Moriarty. "How would you fare if you woke up one day to find years of your life and almost an inch of your hairline gone? The slightest variation to my past would have made me a vastly different person today. The man rendered unconscious in Hamish's drawing room had experiences I have no memory of - have our paths not diverged? The state of anything is not only defined by what it is, but also by all that it is not.

"Think about yourself, Moran," he rattled on, "You had great potential. Then you met me, and-"

"Don't give yourself too much credit," Moran scoffed. "All our association did was make me into a slightly better class of scoundrel."

"Well, if you insist. But I might never be the same again. What if I never remember? I can't possibly depend on you, or anyone, to tell me everything that could be of importance. And being told isn't the same as knowing..."

"We're talking about years, not decades!" protested Moran.

"Some very major changes happened in those years! Should I be satisfied with second-hand reports of my own life?"

"You're still yourself, Professor. Nothing less than raw data for you," Moran affirmed. "But you need only ask, and I'll help you gather concrete evidence, if there is still any, of whatever events you're interested in."

"If it comes to that," Moriarty said distantly. "You were right earlier, though. There is something specific bothering me. Something important."

"If you can't trust me with it, I understand."

"No, it's not that at all. I simply don't expect anyone to be able to help me with it. Because it's..." Moriarty's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "It's  _Dynamics_. I cannot fathom the second half of  _Dynamics_."

Moran sighed, finally knowing the root of Moriarty's self-doubt. "You've already done half better than most of the people who tried reading it."

"Is that why I have twenty-three copies of it here? It was supposed to be my masterpiece! I spent nearly the whole of last night reading it, but it is astonishingly different from what I remember of my first draft. If I cannot understand my own work, then..."

"Perhaps you shouldn't push yourself too hard," suggested Moran. "When you were writing it, you said you never worked on it for more than four hours a day. And even then, you took breaks to plan bank fraud."

"That's true," Moriarty admitted. "It might come back to me when I least expect it."

"I doubt you recall this, but you had an epiphany when we were ambushed by Jack 'Corkscrew' Curtis and those Americans."

"No, I don't recall."

"You were grinning like a lunatic while bleeding out by the side of the road, mumbling about the trajectory of the bullet that hit you."

"Is that so? That must be how I got that scar on my ankle. And what happened to that pair of Italian embroidered socks," mused Moriarty. "Any chance of having them ambush us again?"

"Only if you believe in ghosts. And at any rate, I'd rather not relive that."

"Can't be helped, then," Moriarty sighed. "I'll have to hope for another eureka moment."

"We could have dinner at the Grand Southern Hotel tonight," Moran said, after a while. "They still serve those custard slices you like so much."

"What custard slices?" Moriarty asked dejectedly.

"They hired a new pastry chef," Moran explained. "It might help with your condition - tastes can bring back memories. Then after that, we could go back to my rooms, if you're so incli-"

"Moran, that's it!" Moriarty interrupted. "Do you remember what I ate on the day of the ambush?"

"No, Professor," sighed Moran. "I do not."


	7. Chapter 7

Over the years, Moran grew less and less surprised when Moriarty called on him at odd hours. However, this was offset by the purposes of Moriarty's visits becoming increasingly unpredictable.

"Professor?" said Moran, having finally returned to his rooms after a too-long day of business followed by a could-have-been-longer night of pleasure, despite both of these having taken the same amount of time. Moriarty was curled up in one of the sitting room armchairs, scribbling in a copy of _Dynamics_ with a pencil.

"Enjoyed yourself while I was here waiting for you?" asked Moriarty, smelling a whiff of cheap perfume when Moran walked past him.

"Waiting for me?"

"You invited me."

" _Yesterday_. I invited you here yesterday. And I'm surprised you paid attention to that."

"Have I given you a copy?" Moriarty held up _Dynamics_. "You can have this one when I'm done with it. I'm annotating my notes. You could sell it, eventually. Marginalia from the author will fetch it a higher price."

Moran sat down across him. "Why are you here?" he asked, hoping Moriarty had come to tell him he had regained his memory.

"I have a question," replied Moriarty, dashing Moran's hopes. The professor set his book down on the coffee table. He pulled out two coin purses and a golden cigarette case from his pockets and placed them next to the book. "What are these?"

"Other people's valuables, Professor."

"And how is it that, when I went for a walk this afternoon, I encountered the rare breed of pickpocket who deposits his takings into a third party's pockets?"

"A short, dark man, no older than thirty?"

"Yes."

"That must have been Gavriopoulos."

"Who?"

"A Greek who moved here as a child. Your average swindler and sometimes runner. You treated him as such until you discovered he had intellectual pastimes."

"Does he know who I am?"

"He was never told you were more than another link in the chain, but if he's as bright as you think he is, it won't be long before he does," replied Moran, with a hint of scorn.

"Interesting. Do you have him on file?"

"Yes, in here," said Moran, getting up and leading Moriarty into his study.

He retrieved from the bookshelf in the room a volume which was, if judged solely by its cover, an outdated almanac. Meanwhile, Moriarty examined the documents haphazardly piled on Moran's writing-desk.

"Moran, are you writing a book? Why didn't you tell me?" Moriarty asked. Moran looked at him expectantly.

"Why didn't you tell me again?" he amended.


	8. Chapter 8

"It's just a travel memoir," said Moran. He put the book he had retrieved down on the corner of the desk. "Nothing I haven't already bored you with."

Moriarty's hand hovered over the taller stack of papers on the desk, then jolted to the shorter one. The handwriting on the exposed page was more relaxed, and its contents more relevant to his interests. The moment Moran began an incoherent protest, he picked it up.

"'...My thoughts turned to him of their own accord. Once I awoke in the middle of the night and counted the stars, as if in a trance, wondering if he knew their names. Only when I finished did I realise I had an unobstructed view of the firmament because someone had stolen my tent.'"

Moriarty tutted and continued reading, all the while dodging Moran's attempts to grab the paper.

"'Even a particularly symmetrical tiger pelt-'" Moriarty knocked his shoulder against the corner of the bookshelf as he retreated across the room, "'was enough to bring to mind the times he inexplicably turned our conversations to the latest mathematical function to have taken his fancy.'"

Moriarty paused to raise the paper out of Moran's reach and kick a nearby stool between them as a temporary barrier.

"'Naturally, I have pondered over what could have become of me had I never met him.'"

Moriarty turned on his heel to avoid the stool, shoved aside by Moran, which now clattered against the bookshelf.

"'Or, if I had been able to turn away from his company before it was too late. Or, indeed, what would happen were I to decide there is yet a chance of escaping his orbit.'"

He side-stepped another of Moran's lunges, returning to where he stood earlier.

"'But as I lay in a field hospital on yet another torturously balmy night,'" Moriarty continued, more hesitantly, "struggling to distract myself from the bestial cries of less fortunate men by listing reasons I must live, I realised that one of them was...'

 "'To meet him again in England.'" He paused briefly. "'I wanted to see my extraordinary friend again but once more.'"

Moriarty, his face impassive with a fragile stoicism, did not raise his eyes from the inked words. The grandfather clock in the sitting room ticked in the distance. A forgotten tome balanced precariously over the edge of the top of the bookshelf beside him.

"That's the end of it," Moran said, quietly, extending his hand to ask for the paper back.

Moriarty stirred and considered letting go of the document, but noticed there were words on the reverse of the page he had finished reading. He turned it over.

"'...so I could ask him for a job, preferably one where I could shoot people and not get shot in return.'"

Moriarty looked up from the page. "If you attempt to publish this, you are out of a job."

"It was never even meant to be read!" Moran retorted.

"You could have stopped me, if you really wanted to," Moriarty pointed out.

"Tackling you to the floor seemed an excessive use of force after you lost your memory in an attack by tawdry home decor."

Moriarty scoffed, and was about to return the paper in earnest, when the laws of physics were broken in letter, if not in spirit. Six hundred and sixty-six leather-bound, dust-covered pages of abstruse celestial mechanics descended with what must have been, at a conservative estimate, extremely improbable acceleration, to produce the effect it did on impact with the professor's head.

As curious as he would have been about the implications of this irregular phenomenon - on both his own physiology and the nature of the universe he lived in - he was unable to observe it, because it knocked him out cold.


	9. Chapter 9

When Moriarty came to his senses, he was lying on a familiarly overstuffed sofa. It was the sofa in Moran's sitting room, he confirmed when he opened his eyes. It was almost as overstuffed as that Himalayan langur Moran stuffed himself and sold at an inflated price to an amateur naturalist by passing it off as a newly-discovered, more virile species. _Good old Moran_ , he thought, _trust him to come up with new ideas to abuse others' trust every day._

He wondered if Moran was nearby. He sensed a presence in the room and turned his head to the side to see if it was him. A dull ache at the back of his skull came to his notice when he moved.

"My head..." Moriarty groaned. "Moran? What happened? When did I get back to London? Did I catch that train? Did anyone there suspect...? Are you laughing or crying, Moran? Make up your mind! Sebastian! Why are _you_ having brandy? Give me some of that!"

 

"...and they have located a foreigner by the name of James Moriarty, who made his presence known by strolling about in a ludicrous top hat and monocle while bobbing his head like a chicken, and chatting to local barmaids about 'ellipses'," said Moran, concluding his briefing, which, this time, was about happenings over a much shorter time period.

Moriarty clenched his jaw. "That's not stealing my identity - it's creating me a new one."

"All the same, I have already ordered them to retrieve him," said Moran.

Moriarty took a moment to digest Moran's account of recent events. Then, he said: "You're getting a raise. Don't let anything hit me on the head again."

Moran gave him a sardonic smirk. "You can have my pith helmet free of charge."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, in the end, something did hit him on the head again.
> 
>  **Non-SH references, because someday even I might forget what I meant:**  
> 
> Viola - Reverse-engineered from Violet, her future daughter in The Artist's Portrait of an Old Man, but the _Twelfth Night_ Viola-Sebastian connection was also too good to pass up.
> 
> Professor Tyndall - John Tyndall (1820-1893), physicist, gave several Royal Institution Christmas Lectures.
> 
> four hours - Mathematicians G.H. Hardy and John Edensor Littlewood were both quoted as saying this was around the most they could work per day.
> 
> embroidered socks - There's a throwaway line in Horowitz's novel _Moriarty_ I still think about. Something like: "Moriarty liked embroidered silk socks."
> 
> Grand Southern Hotel - 0 stars on TripAdvisor, because it doesn't exist (as far as I could tell).
> 
> custard slices - Also known as 'Napoleons'. I'll show myself out.


End file.
